The Reluctant Time Traveler
by GrowingStrongerEveryDay
Summary: People always say that they wish they could live in the past. That things were simpler back then. Yet when Molly Hooper is sucked into the Victorian Era she finds that the past is anything but simple. Now she's on the run trying to navigate infamous serial killers, interfering busybodies, and worst of all, corsets, as she tries to find a way back home. If there is a way back.
1. The Reluctant Assistant

**Chapter One - The Reluctant Assistant**

* * *

 _LONDON  
_ _2016_

You never know what you have until it's lost. It was a lesson I was learning in the worst way possible during the summer of 2016. It was to be a year that would live in infamy. In a single year we had the Queen turn 90, Zika virus, David Cameron fucking us all with the Leave vote winning Britexit, the Americans going mental over Donald Trump, the summer Olympics, and more, but as I tried to pop off early on that fateful day current events was the last thing on my mind. Grabbing my handbag and sneaking past Mike's office there was only one thing I could think of, a single obsession that was haunting my every decision as I crept towards the lift.

I wanted a cheese danish.

It was terrible really, but the thought of cheese danishes had followed me all through the day ever since I evaluated the stomach contents of Mrs. Boots that morning. She'd had a cheese danish and what looked to be a frappe-whatever as her last meal you see and, having skipped breakfast myself, I found myself haunted by the thoughts of delicious puff pastry all through the morning. The soft buttery crust. The rich creamy cheese. The sweetness of it all. Visions of cheese danishes danced through my head and when I popped upstairs for lunch I found, to my shock and horror, the cafe had all sold out.

It was a disappointment not to be borne and nothing at the cafe or the caff looked appetizing in the least. I had other postmortems to do so that ruled the pork right out and rubbery looking spaghetti or wilting salads did nothing for me when I'd been tortured by the thought of a cheese danish all day. Grumbling I'd grabbed a sandwich and returned to work but the allure of baked goods remained on my mind until I finally decided that no one would miss me if I left a half hour early to stop by a bakery on my way home. If it had been an ordinary day I wouldn't have been missed in the slightest. I would have made my escape, gotten my danish, and made my way home to my moggy to put my feet up and lament on the state of the world as I ate my reward, safe and secure in my own flat. However, today was not to be a normal day. The exit in sight I was stopped by an all too familiar voice and knew I had been trapped.

"Ah, Molly. Are you headed out then?"

Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Hottie. The Berk with the Brains and my unrequited crush for more years then I cared to admit to. Over the years so much has been written about Sherlock that I don't quite know what to add. Was he gorgeous? Most definitely and in a way that sent me all aflutter in all the worst ways. There was a sort of alien beauty about him, a certain wrongness about his long face or blue eyes that made him seem nearly inhuman. With eyes that changed color depending on the light and dark curly hair I just wanted to sink my hands into he was the most gorgeous man I had ever met.

That he was brilliant too was enough to send my body aflame every time we met. I'd always had a thing for clever blokes, my first boyfriend had initially impressed me by reciting pi to twenty digits, and Sherlock was assuredly that. If he'd put his mind to it Sherlock could have been the world's most brilliant and attractive astrophysicist, giving poor lumpy Neil deGrasse Tyson a run for the money, but unfortunately for the world Sherlock's obsession was crime. Which was the reason life had sent him careening into my gravity well and smashed him into my world like the comet that had killed the dinosaurs. My life had changed completely having met Sherlock Holmes and it was about to change even more. However, I didn't know any of that then. All I knew was that Sherlock had caught me popping off from work and he was interrupting my quest for a cheese danish and I was actually a bit peeved about that.

Being around Sherlock always had the tendency to turn me into a stuttering mouse, all of my self-esteem practice throwing itself out the window and that afternoon was no different. Trying not to wince I turned to meet his glacial blue gaze. Annoyance battled with attraction as I met those eyes and tried to smile.

Only Sherlock wasn't looking at me. He was focused down at his mobile and for that I breathed a sigh of relief. The man was completely disinterested in me, like usual, and if Sherlock wasn't interested that meant he couldn't be here for a case. We'd already be heading back towards the lab if we were and there hadn't been anyone or anything case-worthy on any of my lists that would have brought him in. Well, nothing interesting besides the stomach contents of Mrs. Boots that had sent me longing for a cheese danish, but Sherlock was as disinterested in food as he was in women. I could probably buy him off with an offer of a bag of fingers or maybe a liver and he'd be on his way.

"I was just headed out actually," I said, proffering the handbag on my shoulder as proof. Sherlock blinked, taking them in languidly as if noticing them for the first time. Which was a bit odd really. Usually Sherlock noticed everything immediately, but then I usually wasn't enough to warrant Sherlock's full attention. I doubted I was actually a woman to him. I was probably more like an efficient appliance he only noticed when it broke. Or perhaps the potted plant. "I was popping off for a bit of an early night."

"Why? That's not like you." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he leaned down at me, forcing me to take a half step back just to get enough room to breathe. He had a habit of stealing all the oxygen in the room whenever he got too close and the man had a habit of not recognizing or respecting personal boundaries when it came to other people. Though his leaning in meant I got a good whiff of his cologne. Sandlewood. Yum.

"Yes, well, I have plans." I could feel my face starting to heat as my palms began to sweat. Yes, wonderful plans to pig out on a cheese danish and watch telly with my moggy. Perhaps unwind with a glass of wine, put on a movie, and add images of someone young and equally unattainable to my spank bank so I could manage to look Sherlock in the eye tomorrow.

I took another half step back as Sherlock frowned and leaned ever closer. Did he have to be so close? Ever since his five minute exile and overdose Sherlock had started to become, well, clingy. Whenever he graced me with his presence he stood so close he was practically tethered to me, following me from lab to lab and always setting up his work station next to mine. It was distracting and confusing and, frankly, I wanted it to stop. That, or I wanted him to drag me into a supply cupboard and snog me senseless. No in betweens allowed. I'd finally realized that no matter what I wanted Sherlock was never going to fancy me the way I did him. That was depressing enough but it got even more depressing when you factored in my age. Most women in my position were married and thinking seriously about kids but all I had was Toby. Because a single woman alone in the world with only a cat for company wasn't at all the most depressing thing ever. There was no reason to keep standing around, mooning over Sherlock as if one day he'd realize that I was an actual woman. It was time to move on. Time to delete my naughty thoughts of Sherlock bloody Holmes and find someone new to pin my fancy onto.

A novel idea. Hopefully this time I would actually follow through on it. Please see; Jim, Tom, Matt, Sarah, and Sam. My pervious failures.

With a final once over of my person, Sherlock straightened up. Flipping up his coat collar - I especially hated when he did that, he managed to somehow look even more dashing and mysterious when he did - he smiled tightly at me. "Drinks with Meena tonight?"

I blinked at him, surprised that he A) knew my best friend's name and B) remembered it. "Um… no." I floundered for a moment trying to think up an excuse. Telling Sherlock I'd promised myself a night of empty carbs and mindless entertainment wasn't going to protect me from a night of running experiments with him. The idea came to me so quickly it was like lightening from heaven. "Um, date tonight. I've been trying a new app-" my voice faltered as Sherlock's face went briefly stoney before smoothing out like marble. Crap, did he know I was lying to him? Was he bored? Hurry it up, Hooper! "Anyway, I got matched with a bloke and we thought we'd try coffee first and then maybe dinner."

"Excellent," Sherlock said and flashed me a smile before pressing past me. For a moment I thought I was free but then he was looking back at me as he held the exit door open. "If it's just coffee you can easily reschedule. I need your assistance tonight."

My heart sank. "Assistance? With what? An experiment?"

"Not exactly. Mycroft has engaged me in a particularly tedious bit of field work in exchange for taking our parents to the theater this weekend," Sherlock said, smiling at me with that tight awkward smile I knew meant he was trying particularly hard to be pleasant and found it taxing to keep up. My heart sank further. There had been a time when Sherlock had never used that smile on me. He'd been genuine or he'd been flattering, but he'd never found it a burden to talk to me before. When had that started? Probably around his exile, but I hadn't really recognized it before now. Was he cross at me for some reason? "He's taking them to see _Kinky Boots_. Mummy insisted."

All thoughts of reasons Sherlock might have been cross with me flew out the door at that mental image. I could just picture it, Mycroft Holmes - Sherlock's incredibly posh older brother - surrounded by drag queens in stilettos as they pranced around the stage. Mycroft in the lead, his platform red heels the highest, his boa the longest and-

I clapped a hand over my mouth and tried to bite back the laughter before it could get out. Casting a panicked look up at Sherlock I saw him grinning back and just like that my heart melted. There he was. The man I thought of as mine. His eyes soft and shining, his face boyishly young as we both dissolved into laughter in the hospital hallway.

Sides shaking, I tried to collect myself as I wiped away a tear. "God, what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during _that_ show," I said and giggled, biting my lower lip before I could get set off again. "Though I have to admit that I've been looking to an excuse to go see that show myself. I liked the film, but the West End is so expensive."

Sherlock continued to chuckle as I stepped out past him, following me at a comfortable distance. Each brush of our arms, each so accidentally innocent, still caused my heart to stamp a staccato tango beat. Why did this man affect me so?

"Duly noted. The next time my parents come to town I may have to take advantage of that. There's always the endless _Les Mis_ revivals to take them to or Mycroft has assured Mummy that as soon as _Hamilton_ crosses the pond he'll arrange for them to have front row tickets. Even if it is colonial propaganda," he scoffed.

I gasped, turning sharply to beam up at Sherlock. He froze at me sudden movement, hesitating and nearly taking a step away as I fixed him with a maniac grin. "I love _Hamilton_! I've only heard the recording of course, but it's brilliant. We have to get that here. Learning about the American War of Independence was never that interesting in school."

Blinking at me, Sherlock's eyes couldn't seem to stay on mine, drifting downward in a way that made me think he was intensely uncomfortable. And why wouldn't he be? Here he was telling me about his mother's love of musical theater and I was trying to hit him up for _Hamilton_ tickets. I was an awful friend.

Sherlock nodded once. "I… I'll see about ensuring that you're included then," he said, voice going stiff again.

On the other hand, if managing to get tickets to _Hamilton_ made me a bad person it was totally worth it. Letting out a squeal I threw my arms around him and squeezed him tight enough to make him gasp. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I grinned.

In my grip Sherlock went stiff as a board, eyes going wide as he inhaled sharply. Fuck. I was doing it again. Making him uncomfortable. I knew Sherlock didn't like to be touched unless on his own terms and what do I go and do? Hug the poor bloke. He was probably going to think himself in danger from now on of being horribly molested whenever I got near him. I released him as if he were the hottest of potatoes and stepped way back, giving him his breathing room.

"I'm so sorry-"

"No! It's, ah, fine," Sherlock said, interrupting. He hesitated, arm extending slightly towards me as if belatedly debating if he could return the hug before he suddenly ran his hands through his hair, tousling his curls. "In any case, you surely see the gravity of the situation and why I have been forced to take on this assignment from Mycroft. If I don't I'll be trapped in a world of dancing men in heels and musical numbers. If I wanted that for a night's entertainment I could go to a cabaret in Soho."

Was that a joke? It almost sounded like a joke. Coming from anyone else but Sherlock it certainly would have been a joke, but I never knew Sherlock to make jokes before. Not about drag queens at least. He had a rather clever one about decomp times and scarab beetles but I'd been the only one to laugh at that one which made me wonder if it had been a joke at all in the first place. John and Lestrade had looked disturbed when Sherlock had told it and considering his deadpan delivery I wasn't entirely certain that had been a joke either.

In any case there was my destiny with a cheese danish to consider. Could I keep to my lie and pretend I had a hot date or pop off and help Sherlock? Only one had the possibility of flaky goodness while the other meant further obsession and probably therapy in my future after I completely went around the bend and started to make hair shrines out of his clippings. On the other hand, this was a case and it was rare for Sherlock to ask for my help. He hadn't done that in, well, he'd only done it once before right after he'd returned from the dead. That had been a bit of a weird outing, but it had been nice all the same. The two of us tromping over London, helping people and interviewing that bloke obsessed with the train carriages - sorry, cars - before I'd somehow managed to go and ruin it simply by being engaged. Who knew when Sherlock would ever ask me on something like this again?

It was just a cheese danish after all. Yet then, as if summoned by the ghosts of my self worth, a thought popped into my head. "Why can't John come?"

All mirth left Sherlock's face as he looked away, suddenly preoccupied with something only he found interesting down the way. "Busy. Apparently Elizabeth is doing something astounding and he can't be pulled away. I do believe he said something about tummy time and rolling. I don't know the precise details as I wasn't really listening."

So that was how it was then. Of course that was how it was. I tried to squash down all those hopeful, silly thoughts and told the inner twelve year old doodling 'Mrs. Sherlock Holmes' on her folder to shove off. Of course Sherlock would have gone to John first and, finding his favorite partner busy, gone looking for a suitable temporary replacement. Briefly I wondered how many other people Sherlock had tried before settling on me but that was far too depressing to consider long.

I thought of my promised cheese danish and then I thought of Sherlock. Of the friendship I thought we had. The friendship I wanted there to be between us since the thought of our dating was so unlikely. I took a deep breath.

"Alright then, so what's the case?"

Sherlock beamed at me so widely he looked like a child on Christmas morning before turning and beginning down the sidewalk. For once he walked slowly enough that I was able to easily keep up, leaning in towards me conspiracy as we traveled down the sidewalk. "I'm afraid we're simply to check on some researcher of Mycroft's to make sure he's not dropped dead. Apparently he's gone off the grid and completely fallen out of contact with his handlers and Mycroft wants assurances that he's still on task and not wasting the crown's money."

My eyebrows raised. "That doesn't seem like the sort of thing your brother would ordinarily concern himself with."

Shrugging, Sherlock cast another tense smile my way. "As I said, it was a bit of field work and my brother is notoriously lazy when it comes to that sort of thing. He was prepared to undertake my duties towards our parents in exchange and really that's all that matters. I'd take a one if it kept me out of the West End."

"Really?" I asked. I doubted that. I doubted that a whole lot. Sherlock willingly accepting a one was like me telling a dentist that it was fine to take all my teeth out without any numbing first. "A one?"

"Well, perhaps not a one," Sherlock conceded as he shoved his hand in his pockets. "It would have to be a four at the bare minimum. A three if things were particularly slow."

"So what does that make checking up on a scientist who's stopped looking at their e-mail?" I asked.

Sherlock stopped at the edge of the kerb, raising his arm up to summon a taxi from thin air as he always did. "Ordinarily it would be a zero, hardly better then finding a lost dog, but with you with me… I do believe that makes it a six. At minimum," he rumbled.

I did a double take so fast I almost got whiplash. Whoa. Where had that come from? Against my will and better judgement I felt myself blush as the cab pulled up. If that had been anyone else but Sherlock I would have said those words were profoundly flirty. As it was it was all I could do to keep my hormones in check. Sherlock would never forgive me, I would never forgive myself, if I suddenly forced him up against the hospital exterior and ravished him.

"Once we're done we must have dinner," he added as if it were an afterthought. He opened the cab door for me when he suddenly stiffened, eyes going panicked as if he had done something wrong. "I meant a meal. To make up for forcing you to miss your coffee date of course."

I almost felt bad for lying at that. Again, almost. There was another large part of me mentally picking flower arrangements as the rest of me mourned the fact that I was never going to attract Sherlock's attention that way. It was still decent of him though. I may not have been Sherlock's first choice for a case companion but he could be oddly polite when it came to taking up my time. When he remembered, of course. Telling myself that this was just what I should get used to and nothing more I slid into the cab, smiling up at Sherlock. "Going to take me to that fish and chips shop at last then?"

Sherlock hesitated then nodded, still stiff as if he'd said something terribly wrong and was expecting me to slap him for it. That I couldn't think of what he'd said recently to deserve it apparently didn't matter in the least. The odd duck. "If you wish," he muttered and slammed the door shut. Crossing to the other side of the cab he got in. "I was thinking I could take you someplace a bit nicer in thanks if you wanted. There's an Italian restraint that John and I favor after cases. The proprietor would get us a candle," he added as if that were significant.

My eyebrows raised as yet another nail was hammered into the coffin of my chances with Sherlock. After Janine I'd thought that maybe Sherlock might have preferred women, or had no preference at all, but a regular candlelight dinner with John after cases sounded a bit, well… I wondered if Mary knew. Maybe she didn't mind? They could have been sharing! I tried to dial my imagination back. More logically, did John know at all? The doctor could be remarkably dense sometimes.

"Fish and chips are fine for me. It's only a small case after all."

Sherlock muttered a short agreement and we fell into silence. With a heavy sigh the cab driver, turned around glaring at us with watery eyes. "So where am I taking you then?"

Starting, Sherlock barked out an address then slumped into his seat. Yanking out his mobile he held it close as he began to text rapidly and I stifled a sigh. Whatever fun we'd been having had apparently been ruined by dinner plans and I didn't know where things had gone wrong. Leaning against the cab window I stared out at the passing lights and desperately wished that things could be different. If my life had gone even a little bit different, if I'd taken the job in Edinburgh instead of London, I could have had an entirely different life by now. You couldn't go back in time though. Life was a straight line and no matter how much you wished things could be different you had to keep slogging on straight to the end. Or so I thought at the time.

"This must be Thursday," I muttered to herself as I watched the shops pass by, lit within with warmth and laugher.

"Pardon?"

I looked over at Sherlock long enough to smile at him reassuringly, taking in the nearly defensive way he was holding his mobile like a shield as a hint to give him a bit more room and scooted away. "It's nothing. I was just thinking of a quote from a book."

For a moment Sherlock looked as if he was going to ask me another question and I briefly panicked, wondering how to explain the chaos that was Douglas Adams to a man of pure logic when he abruptly turned away. Hunkering down even further into his coat he turned to his mobile, texting away as I turned her attention back to the chilly London streets.

Yup, had to be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.


	2. The Reluctant Guinea Pig

Chapter Two - The Reluctant Guinea Pig

* * *

 _London  
2016_

So there we were, headed to only Sherlock knew where in search of a scientist who may have been dead, injured, or simply forgotten their WiFi password. With my cheese danish dreams squashed and my hopes of an early evening being frittered away, was it any wonder that I was getting bored? Attempting to covertly ogle Sherlock could only be done for so long before the detective caught me at it and I had no desire to make things even more awkward between us. So, in my defense, this was the best alternative I could think of as we drove down the busy streets of London, weaving through traffic like a Jacquard Loom weaving threads.

"How does a posh dude, son of an American and a  
Rich bloke dropped in the middle of a  
Influential spot in Oxbridge,  
Wealthy, in politics  
Grow up to be a hero and a scholar?"

"What the devil are you doing?" Sherlock asked, eyeing me from over his phone. His lip was twitching as if he was divided on whether to smile or scowl and I beamed at him brightly.

"I've been thinking about what you said about _Hamilton_ being colonial propaganda so I thought we could come up with our own rap musical about a historical figure."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised so high they married his hair line as he stared at me. "I see," he said carefully. I could see the panic in those blue eyes, the realization that while he had escaped attending a musical with his parents he was trapped in a cab with me and here I was writing something entirely new and far, far worse. "Whom have you decided to feature as the main protagonist then?"

"Winston Churchill of course!" I said brightly, beaming at him. "Just picture it;

"Winston Churchill  
My name is Winny-ston Churchy-hill  
And there's a million Nazis I haven't faced  
But just you wait, just you wait."

Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt as he covered his face with his hands. Laughing I beamed at him. This felt good I realized as I kept humming the tune. Being friendly with Sherlock that was, not coming up with terrible rap ideas. Though that was fun too. It had been so long since it had been the two of us in a non-work setting that I almost felt a bit giddy as we made our way down the streets. Part of that was probably my crush talking, but Sherlock was fun to poke at. He was just so posh it was so easy to rile him.

"Don't make raps, Molly," Sherlock said, finally uncovering his face. He was staring at me with a disapproving look, his lips downturned but his eyes dancing again. "It doesn't suit you. Besides, if Mycroft finds out you're disparaging a national icon such a non-traditional format he'll invoke the Secrets Act and ensure you're removed before you can infect the public."

"Oh really?" I asked and hummed a bridge of the next song. "And who's going to tell him?"

"I will if you don't stop that infernal humming," Sherlock said. For a moment I hesitated, wondering if he was serious, but then he reached over and shoved my shoulder in a move that was very nearly playful. Almost as if I were one of the blokes. Joy. "And if you must choose a historical figure to rap about I would expect you to be more creative about it at least."

The cab pulled up to the kerb, the cabbie barking the cost and I glared at him hotly. Berk. Here I had Sherlock acting like a normal person for once and being friendly and now we were being cast back into case-mode. I bit my lip as Sherlock paid, hopping out of the cab with him. "Who would be a more creative topic?" I blurted out as he headed towards a building. I was desperate to keep the camaraderie going, to keep Sherlock friendly instead of focused. God, why was I so pathetic when it came to him? No wonder I was barely in the friend zone, I was like a puppy nipping at his heels for attention.

Sherlock hummed in thought then popped his collar. "Isambard Kingdom Brunel perhaps?"

"Who?"

He shrugged. "An engineer I believe. He built… erections."

I blinked. "He what?"

The tips of Sherlock's ears went pink as the most haughty of expressions settled upon his face. "I don't precisely recall. All I retained was the droning of the professor espousing the wonders of Brunel's erections while I deleted the rest from my mind palace. I hear that they were quite large, sturdy, and hard to get rid of, Brunel's erections that is."

I stared at him for a moment. Dear reader, I'm afraid that I just couldn't stop myself. Sherlock Holmes, the man I considered one of the poshest I'd ever met had just made a dick joke. Bursting out in hysterical giggles I grabbed my sides and laughed as Sherlock sighed and waited for me to finish. At last, when I was finally tapering off, he rolled his eyes and turned back towards the building.

"Besides," he said, walking up to the door and rapping sharply, "I thought your lyrics could become;

"We had an engineer on the inside. That's right,  
Isambard Brunel.  
A bloke building stuff for the British  
government  
He takes the measurements, information then he constructs it."

Sherlock dryly rapping to _Yorktown_ was enough to shock me into silence. I gaped at him like a fish out of water as he turned to look at me, eyebrow raised in challenge. "Don't look so surprised, Molly. I'm afraid that Mary is also quite the fan." The door opened and he turned back to it. "Ah, Professor Hatherley. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Molly Hooper. We've been sent by my brother Mycroft to determine the status of your research. Might we come in?"

The harried looking man in the doorway was exactly what you would expect a nutty professor to look like. With hair all askew and clothes that looked to be several days old and slept in the man blinked at us in absolute confusion as Sherlock looked down his nose at him. His dazed gaze traveled from Sherlock to I and back again before he frowned and adjusted his glasses. "Well, actually-"

"Excellent. Thank you," Sherlock said and firmly pressed Professor Hatherley out of the way and into the door. Stepping past him as if he'd been invited in Sherlock made straight towards the stairs. Hesitating only a moment I rushed after him. Discovering how well Sherlock knew the other lyrics to _Hamilton_ was something that I was going to need to do, but it wouldn't do to pry about it now. Sherlock was in full case mode and the last thing I wanted to do was invoke the Wrath of Holmes by distracting him.

I'd reached the top of the stairs before the sputtering Professor seemed to know what we were doing. "Now see here!" he shouted, barreling after us up the stairs. Sherlock either didn't notice or mind as he strode confidently down a short hall and pushed an ajar door the rest of the way open. Again, I hurried after him which is precisely how I found myself in the laboratory of Professor Hatherley. If I had known then what I know now I never would have set foot in that accursed building, much less entered the lab itself.

The lab didn't match the Professor in the slightest. Where Hatherley was disheveled and disorderly, the lab looked like it had been designed by someone with OCD. The room was spotless, all metals and gleaming white surfaces with outlines carefully drawn on the walls in black marker showing where the various tools should be hung. The only thing that was even remotely out of place was a wrench that had been left on a lab bench, obviously just set aside so that the Professor could open the door for us. One wall had been covered with blackboard paint, precise white chalk letters spelling out equations that looked ripped from a science fiction film. I had never been that good at maths and found the equations impossible to decipher, there were too many x's and little curly Greek letters that I had no idea what they were supposed to represent, but Sherlock strode over to it immediately, his head tilting as he stared at it intently. As for me I stared at the walls, lips pursing as I took in the tools and their perfect outlines as I slowly wandered towards the back of the small room.

"Now see here!" Professor Hatherley said again as he burst into the room. He seemed to deflate a bit after that, hesitating a long moment as he glared at Sherlock. "This is a… This is a private residence. You have no business bursting in!"

"If you take issue with my methods I would suggest you contact my brother, Mycroft Holmes," Sherlock drawled. His eyes were still intently on the equations, his fingers starting to twitch a little as he frowned. I stared at them wondering if he was trying to signal me or something. Should I have been doing something? Uncertain, I stepped further back in hopes that Professor Hatherley wouldn't notice me and tried to surreptitiously pull out my mobile.

"Yes. Well. Perhaps I will!" flustered Hatherley.

"In the meantime, perhaps you can explain precisely what it is that you're attempting to design?" Sherlock asked, his voice starting to harden as he turned to glare at the professor.

Hatherley sputtered, face going red and splotchy with panic as my heart began to race. Visions of recent terrorist attacks began to flash through my mind, my eyes darting around the room to take in everything. Paris, Brussels, Istanbul… Had we entered the lair of someone working for an extremist? Was he building a bomb? My eyes whipped back and forth searching the room for clues before locking onto a folding screen that blocked the back of the room from sight. Casting a glance towards Sherlock I bit my lip and dashed towards it, clutching my mobile tightly.

"That's classified!" Professor Hatherley was sputtered as I pushed aside the screen as quietly as possible. Behind it was an object taller then I was draped heavily by a white sheet. A tightly bound set of cords as thick as my wrist had been slithered across the ground, the ends vanishing under the draperies. Heart thumping hard I felt my mouth go dry as I stared at the sheet, wondering what on earth could have been under it. Was it worth the risk to find out? What if it really was a bomb? I could blow us all to kingdom come!

I glanced back towards Sherlock again, but he wasn't paying attention to me in the slightest. Neither of them were. Standing before the professor, Sherlock only looked bored, his face a perfect mask of disapproval as he glared down at the shorter professor. "Is that so?" he drawled, lip twisting. "I had been told that you were engaged in order to design facial recognition software for the city's CCTV system."

Really? Oh that sounded awful. I'd have to harry Mycroft about that later though for as I watched the Professor's face went pale and he suddenly broke into a sweat. Smirking, Sherlock turned towards the wide expanse of equations and gestured towards them. "Perhaps you could show me where in this mess you intended to design and build a computer program? I'm afraid that my skill in Physics is only rudimentary, however I do believe that these equations would better represent an attempt to solve a problem in quantum mechanics rather than C plus, plus. Or-" he held up a hand, stopping the Professor from protesting, "perhaps we should skip the formalities and just contact my brother directly? I'm certain he'll be interested in why you've used his grant monies to solve Physics equations rather than the work you were hired for."

The panic that had been coursing its way through my body took a hard left only to crash and die in disappointment as Hatherley began to sputter. Quantum mechanics? Dear Lord, of course Sherlock would be able to recognize something like that in half a glance. I'd barely managed my introductory Physics courses in university and Sherlock knew quantum mechanics. Once again I found myself comparing myself to the brainy detective and coming up lacking. Turning back to the sheet covered object I frowned. In all likelihood it wasn't a bomb. Nutty Professors who stole grant money to solve Physics equations were not the bomb building type in my opinion and now I wanted to know what it was that Hatherley was trying to build. If it was a nuclear reactor or a small particle accelerator I was going to bolt. There was no way I could trust either of those not to explode.

Grabbing the sheet I pulled it hard. The white fabric resisted a moment before sliding off and pooling at my feet as I blinked at the contraption I had uncovered. The machine was chrome and white, the shape almost like a birdcage large enough to hold a human standing up. There were gaps between the bars large enough for me to step through, the supports wrapped tightly in copper wiring and a strange little dish on the top. The thick bundle of cords had been plugged into the bottom of the machine and I leaned forward to get a better look as Hatherley began to shout.

"Sod your brother!" the older man shouted. I glanced back at that to see Hatherley, fists clenched, backing up as Sherlock loomed over him. "My research is going to revolutionize the world!"

I rolled my eyes and turned back towards the machine. Revolutionize the world with an over glorified birdcage? I couldn't mock him too much since I too had had fantasies of raising the dead like a brilliant (and far more competent) Frankenstein, but-

Who was I kidding? I was going to mentally mock him away. I raised my mobile, snapping a picture as Hatherley sputtered in rage behind me. "I'll show you! I'll show you all!" he roared as Sherlock scoffed loudly.

I glanced over my shoulder as Hatherley dashed across the room and hit a light-switch with a triumphant shout of "Ha!" Sherlock smirked at him, looking decidedly unimpressed as his mobile dangled in his hands but I caught the sparking of bright white light out of the corner of my eye and turned to look. A look turned into a gasp and then a yelp as I staggered back from the machine while it burst into life. My hip hit a table, I staggered and hit the floor as hot white sparks exploded in a spray into the air. The bars of the birdcage were moving, the entire device beginning to spin as the white light that engulfed it burned brighter and brighter. The hum from the device was intense, the sound and vibration making my teeth hurt as I shoved my mobile back into my pocket and struggled to stand.

That turned out to be a vital mistake.

It was only after I stood that I felt it, the whooshing pressure dragging me back towards the machine. It was like a vacuum, and me the dust bunny of Toby's hair, grabbing hold of me and dragging me towards the bright white light and spinning machine. My hands clawed the air as the pressure grew more intense and I yelped, somehow grabbing hold of the table and holding on for my dear life.

"Molly!" I heard Sherlock shout over the noise and sucking pressure. I looked up desperately, hair whipping around me to see him clinging to the room's doorknob, his eyes wide and shocked. His curls raged around his face as he looked to Hatherley. "Turn it off!" he bellowed at the man. "Shut it down, damn you!"

Hatherley was nowhere near the switch though. The man had braced himself behind a lab bench, his eyes on the machine behind me as he grinned widely. "It works! It works!" I could hear him crow over and over again as the machine continued to roar.

For a moment the pressure lessened, the sound dimming, and I thought that maybe it was over. I straightened, hand coming up to brush my hair back in place. Trembling, I cast a wobbly smile towards Sherlock who'd released the doorknob and was striding angrily towards Professor Hatherley. Then, with a pop the machine began to scream. I dived for the table once more, Sherlock grabbing hold of the lab bench as the wind roared like a tornado behind me. I let out a shriek, my feet leaving the floor and the table dragging itself across the room towards the machine. Papers and tools flew around me, sucked into the machine. I heard Sherlock scream my name again as his mobile flew past my head and into the light.

I looked up and met his desperate eyes. He stretched out a hand as if trying to reach me and then it happened. Hatherley's wrench hit me right between the eyes. I felt the crack and saw stars as the metal wrench bounced away. Vision reeling I tasted blood. My grip loosened and the next thing I knew I was being yanked back through the room as if on a string. I heard Sherlock shout my name again before I plunged into the machine. White light so pure it was blinding engulfed me and then I knew nothing.

When I awoke I was outside, it was raining, and I was in an alley. The skittering of rats came from a broken down box across from me and I frowned at it blearily as I slowly sat up. Groaning, I touched my head, my fingers coming away sticky with blood. I blinked, eyes clearing enough to see I was surrounded by filth and scattered objects, the professor's papers and goddamn wrench laying throughout the alley. I blinked again, rubbing my forehead as I shakily drew myself up on all fours. Sherlock's phone was next to me, dangerously close to a puddle as the rain dripped down on it. I picked it up and put it in my pocket then slowly drew myself to my feet.

My head was throbbing, my vision stilly blurry as I staggered down the alley, using the brick wall as a support. I had no idea where I was, what had happened to bring me here. All I remembered was white and the sound of Sherlock's desperate voice. Had I fallen out a window? I couldn't remember. What had the machine done to me?

Consumed by the realization that I had a concussion and needed medical attention I kept my gaze towards the end of the alley, my eyes locked on the cobble bricks. That was enough to make me blink, rain dripping down my face as I took a moment to catch my breath. Who still built streets with cobbles? I groaned as my head throbbed particularly hard and surged for the end of the alley. Medical attention. Concussion. Nothing else mattered right now I thought as I reached the alley and propelled myself towards the street.

Blinking rain out of my eyes I froze. The street was done all in cobbles, the streetlamp on the corner flickering with gas light as a horse drawn carriage clopped away down the street from me. Fog hung heavy in the air, the rain doing little to dispel it as it floated through the air giving the atmosphere an unreal look. Two women in voluminous dresses huddled under an umbrella, giving me a wide berth as they scuttled down the sidewalk, their heads bowed as they avoided a puddle and kept going.

I touched my head again, peering hard at the blood. How hard had I hit my head? Enough to knock me silly at the bare minimum I thought as I woozily stepped out into the street. Instead of my London I'd somehow woken up in a BBC period piece and I wanted to go home. My head hurt and I wanted an MRI and some pain killers, not to mention a good long shower after waking up in that alley. Blearily I reached into my pocket and drew out Sherlock's mobile. It was locked of course and so focused was I on trying to figure out what the detective's password might be that I never heard the clopping of the horse coming up behind me before it was too late.

At the sound of a loud snort and I shout I turned to see it, the carriage coming up on me. The driver's whip cracked as he pulled up tight on the reins and the horse whinnied loudly, rearing up. Throwing out an arm I cried out, the hooves flashing over my head as I fell back. My head hit the cobble street with a crack so hard I swear I felt my brain bounce in my skull. Stars exploded behind my eyes once again and I felt myself go limp, Sherlock's phone sliding from my grip. I laid there limply in a muddle puddle, eyes staring sightlessly up at the rain filled sky as darkness edged over me. From the carriage I heard a cry and the sound of a door swinging open.

"Watson, grab your bag. We have an injured street urchin before us," I heard a sharp voice bark and despite myself I smiled. Watson? Well at least Sherlock had found me. A dark figure hovered over me and then everything went black.


End file.
